Page 78 of Dearest Beast
How different exactly was he from that young convert running for office with seemingly no care for any of them? Or Sol’s older brother, who was so ashamed of his own sibling’s Jewishness, he’d attempted murder? Was he who his children would become?
After all his family survived? The years of practicing in secret, if at all. Four generations. They’d forgotten so much that when they finally reached Amsterdam, they’d had to painstakingly relearn their own rituals, their own language, their own story, everything that was supposed to be theirs. It was a difficult task, especially for the adults. And yet they’d succeeded.
Was it now all for naught?
Roger blinked into the small ray of afternoon sunlight sliding in through a crack in the curtains and shook his head. Not if he could help it.
He turned back to Fannie. “I can show you.” A power he’d not felt in a long while rushed into his veins. Yes, he lacked the ability and time to act as a governess for his children—one that valued their own learning as much as what was needed to survive in the gentile world—but teaching them until one could be hired, well, that he could do. Or at least he could try.
“We shall start practicing teshuva,” he continued.
“What’s that?” Fannie asked, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s…” Roger frowned, searching his mind for a correct explanation of the concept. “Well, it’s a form of repair that we do. Returning to our best selves after we’ve stumbled. There are rules…” He paused, as he could not quite remember the exact specifics.
The Rambam discussed it, did he not? Roger tapped his chin, working to remember. There was a multivolume work of his on the subject in the library. Perhaps they could start there. Together.
Fannie cocked her head, looking up at him curiously. “Papa?”
Roger glanced down at her. “Come,” he said, extending his hand, which his daughter accepted without hesitation.
“Where are we going?” Fannie asked.
“To get your brother, so we can all learn about it together,” he explained, leading her toward the door.
It was not what he’d anticipated doing that day, but he was almost looking forward to it all the same.
A small rapping at her door woke Rebecca from a dreamless sleep. With a groan, she forced herself out of bed, threw a dressing gown over her nightdress, and creaked open the door to find Berab standing at her threshold, wearing merely trousers and an almost completely opened, rumpled shirt. There was stubble on his chin, his hair was mussed, and his gaze, well, it was nearly predatory as it locked on hers.
Rebecca swallowed, even as the hum of desire awoke in her sleepy limbs.
“What are you doing here?” She rubbed her arms against the night chill.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he told her, stretching himself so he filled the doorframe, blocking her exit, now nearly glowering at her.
Something that should, if not frighten her, irritate her to no end. Except, somehow, it did the opposite. It made her want.
Both the man and whatever game he sought to play. Even if she hated games.
“I didn’t want to disturb you.” She folded her arms across her chest in a desperate attempt to calm her already aroused body.
“Well, I certainly did,” he said. “You should remember that next time.”
“Berab,” she attempted to admonish, except his name came out more like a plea than anything else.
“Red,” he returned, a slight mocking note in his voice. Though his eyes turned serious. “Please let me in,” he said, his voice quiet. “I need you.”
The simple earnestness in those three words nearly felled her. She could not say no to this, to him. Not now.
Probably not ever.
Unfortunately.
Not that now was a time to probe such a notion.
No, it was the time to once again live in the moment. The place where, when they were together, everything seemed right.
“All right,” she told him, stepping back to permit him entry. “You need me ho—” Before she could even complete the question, his mouth was on hers.
